


Heroic Legends of Arslan: part 1- The Prince

by minkmix



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 05:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkmix/pseuds/minkmix
Summary: Wow. This is old. XD When you could only see Elam on laser disc.





	1. The Prince

Daryoon was tired.

It was the weariness, he told himself, the battle weariness that came on after too many nights on the roadside half asleep. His exhaustion lead him to thoughts that usually slept beneath the clamor of his immediate worries. To be hard. To fight. To lead and provide for his men.

But even as every muscle ached, and his hands were blistered even under his gloves from wielding the heavy hilt of his sword, he went on, drawing from an unflagging source within.

He was not certain of how it came to be there. He had experienced so many climes of life, so many that had struck sparks leading to fire, that it was difficult to pull each memory from the next; near impossible to locate the running spring of his stamina. Perhaps it was in his very first battle, when shards of sun-hot metal exploded from the cannons and screamed through the air. Ignited and smoking, the fragments that had sizzled into his flesh must have traveled deep in his body, farther than the field surgeon's cruel tongs, left there like the scars on any warrior's skin. Came by agony and reflected on with melancholy pride.  
Whatever the cause, it glowed there still. He never put it out, could not think how to, and so it remained with him always, sparking the ready flint of his anger; cooling with rest and drink but not extinguished. Never that. Over the years, the bright chip had sunk lower and lower down until it settled in his stomach where he knew it would always be there waiting for him whenever he chose to be touched by it.

It made him burn silently in thought, until the mute bonfire's heat saw his voice heard even in a council of ten or twenty bickering officials. He felt it walking along the palace halls late at night, the duties of a faltering kingdom heavy on his station. He had felt it this very morning when the battle had begun. He could feel it now on horseback as he heard the warlike cries. And with a roar he went forth, groaning as he raised his sword to a sky lorded by an angry sun, his shoulder in agony from strain.  
Like an afterthought his blade met another and another, the day waning with the enemy's ranks, dwindling in their numbers.  
What seemed an hour had turned into day. The battle was past, the flint pulsing safe and secret. Night had something to do with it, he was certain, cleansing the bloody sunset to an indigo slate. His tired mount, flanks foamy with sweat, limped to a halt on the battered dunes. Numb, he watched the desert make the sky. When the blue black expanse of heaven ignited with the starlight one only sees in the deep desert far from the shining citadels and their fires, Daryoon could feel more peace in one glance than in a lifetime of rest. The steady burn within his belly calmed like a frantic beast to music. It made him forget, just for a moment, that all around him throats were begging to be cut.

Remnants of the battle echoed from behind. Dying men cried out like children for death, the younger ones weeping for their mothers. As each were dispatched, their cries died erratically, blood pumping onto the burning sand. Daryoon looked upon it all with the same indifference. He was a hero of jackals, the sharp-toothed scavengers that fought each other for the poor remains. A scruffy black cur dragged what looked to be a limb in its teeth across the sand, to be devoured in its lair. That is what he had reduced these brave soldiers to. Food for curs and carrion.

"Daryoon?"

Daryoon blinked out of his reverie, turning in his saddle to see the lithe figure of the Prince astride his mount. Mare and rider both were lambent in the gauzy light, the Prince in his traditional pale silk, clutching the gossamer mane. Daryoon could not help wondering briefly if he had always appeared thus, luminous even in shadow. Daryoon felt the pull of his mind loosen with the threads of oblivious fatigue, leading him to idle thoughts.

His mind was sharp but removed, his observations dreamlike in wearied disregard. Deep rooted duty made his back stiffen at the approach but the Prince seemed weary and uncaring.

"Will you take your leave Daryoon?" He asked, his battered golden helmet shoved carelessly beneath one arm. "Surely you must be spent after all...."

"By and by, Highness." Daryoon replied curtly, words coming to his lips as his sword met his enemy time and time again, without thought, automatic and stern. Words like stamina, came forth without hesitation when he needed them. "I prefer to stand watch for now."

The Prince seemed puzzled but it did not last for he too was drawn in by the magnificence in the heavens. "I'm sure the gods wish you were up there with them." The Prince's slow murmur was warm, grossly unfitting his status. Such words in this place  
could only come from that mouth. Only his Prince could inspire such a sentiment amid such horror.

"You do me honor in saying so, Sire."

Arslan's eyes regarded him intently, unearthly bright and pale.

"No Daryoon, you honor ~me~...in all that you do."

"My thanks, Highness." Daryoon managed a curt nod, then frowned. This creature of white skin and robes, desert roses and fragile jewels.... here in the fields of death with him. Daryoon's eyes traveled down the length of the Prince's sleeve, frowning at the ugly rust-colored blossoms on the careworn silk. He had blood on his horse, his blade, even the pale hair clinging to him with sweat. Streaks of dirt marred his face as if he were no more than a beggar.

Daryoon's lip curled briefly in disgust, the cooled flint within flaring dangerously. It was an outrage that Arslan be tainted with the blood of the common solider. Daryoon checked himself with a tightening of his jaw. The soft child Daryoon had known in his youth was now a delicate man, but with a strength fragile flowers did not possess. He witnessed the thick of it, this delicate prince. He had fought and watched his enemies die under his sword.

Arslan astride this same golden mount, wiping blood from his cheek as if it were but rain. A Prince sworn to fight for his countrymen. An astute monarch. A sweet youth.

These were the things he heard said of his Lord. But he no longer believed in these soft versions and fragile descriptions. He had watched this "flowerlike" Prince struggle breathlessly to regain his blade lodged deep in the thick bone of an unwary foe. What the world heralded as a boy, had become a man.

He had seen Arslan mature in the time he had spent under his banner. From unsure lad to the eloquent and charismatic leader that made all from wayfaring wanderers to rich monarchs want to swear allegiance to him, follow him...  
...serve him. Daryoon felt the flint settle to a flickering warmth at the thought. Arslan's dreamy murmuring focused his attention once more and his thoughts rippled, like a pebble thrown into a well.

"When I become King," Arslan spoke, his voice sounding as if in a faraway place. "I shall name you my champion, Daryoon."

"Highness..." Daryoon groped silently, unsure.

"You fought bravely and we shall all be glad when we reach Benaresh."

Still basking in the aura of the Prince's sight, Daryoon managed a courteous nod but nothing more. This contented the Prince and his pale gold mare sighed softly as she was reigned gently back for camp. Daryoon looked away, glowing silently.

"Good night, Highness."

 

 

Dawn came gently, heating the cool white dunes to a pearl pink. Men rose quickly from sleep and mounted, eager for the ride that would carry them to refuge. Arslan's steed stood at the head of the ranks, swishing its tail impatiently.

"To Benaresh!" The Prince shouted, signaling the order to move out.

Daryoon kicked his chestnut stallion's sides and he bore him swiftly beside the Prince, allowing the higher-ranking mare space ahead. Daryoon glanced at the Prince's expression, noting his well-rested appearance and even subtler joy.

You fought bravely and we shall all be glad when we reach Benaresh.

He had sounded so relieved. It was as if he believed with each battle, the gods were smiling down on him, taking notice. That each day won may be the last day fought for. Still, the word victory meant many things to many people. To Daryoon it meant merely time. Time for water, for cool palace air and, if Misra smiled upon them, perhaps rest.

 

 

They were bound now for a new and lovely land, untouched yet by the bloody war. Rumors and talk were all that had reached this place. The battle's savage game was a wind through the hair of the town council. Daryoon found himself a guilty form of bliss upon their arrival, taking part in the oblivion that these simple people didn't know they enjoyed. He knew it  
wasn't to be for very much longer. He also found himself keeping avoiding the questions the curious council asked of him, or changing his seriousness to indifference, his stern warnings to vague menace.

Narsus glanced at him askance more than once and finally whispered to him so as not to interrupt the Prince's formal but cordial speech to the Benaresh council. They would soon adjourn for customary green tea and the fragrant fruity smoke of their blue and green enameled hookahs.

"What's wrong?" Narsus took a slender brown sheath of paper wrapped around dried mint leaves and lit it with a candle that sat between them. His gaze was like his words, skilled at wrenching things.

"It is easy to forget here." Daryoon told him with a sigh.

Narsus frowned.

"Forget? Forget what?"

"The war, the enemy. Threat." Daryoon almost growled the word.

The fresh scent of the smoke Narsus exhaled floated around his face in lazy wisps. "Where is the harm in that?"

Arslan proffered a small jest which made their hosts laugh in delight and toast him. Daryoon's gray eyes averted, not caring to meet his friend's gaze with his reply.

"You know well, Narsus. The Lusitanians--"

Narsus's fingers closed gently upon Daryoon's lips, quieting him. "--must find our own ranks first among the revelers." Narsus smiled a small smile but it wasn't unkind. "All bloody thoughts may wait til morrow..." He placed a hand on Daryoon's shoulder. "...for the Prince's leadership and your strong hand have won us some respite." He gestured to an open window.

The hypnotizing blaze of sunset entranced and held Daryoon's eyes before he allowed it and the rising tune of flutes resonated with the light and the scent of burnt sweets. All seemed to plead, to beg...

Come out and see. Come out....

"There is your fee, Daryoon." Narsus whispered close to his ear. "Go. Enjoy the music and let it take your troubles with it."  
Daryoon sighed.

The music was hard to ignore.

While most of the kingdom celebrated Misra and built all the various demi gods and goddesses reverent shrines and temples, this particular province of Palse was enamored with a colorful demi God named Bhalsec. His youthful visage was present in many of Misra's fertility rites and painted suggestively in houses that sold the scented flesh of women and men to those  
willing to pay for it.

Women who longed to be with child lit incense at His shrines, and those who wanted a certain other to take notice of them, might leave a few coins or honey cakes on His altar. Bhalsec favored frivolity and love above all things and it was for this reason on His day, mortals on earth chose to live as He would have them live.

Here in Benaresh his presence was celebrated in a week long festival. The music and laughter had not stopped since their arrival, day or night, and the revelry had not ebbed for an instant. Wine was on every tongue, honey and hard sweets dripping from every palm. Warm and sticky kisses were given freely as water.

 

 

It was not the lightheaded feeling from the hookah or Narsus's words that had brought him outside the Council's walls. Benaresh was a fine seductress at night. The streets were still hot from the midday sun, scattered with people and alive with music. The flint pulsed involuntarily, alert but quiet. Daryoon recognized many of his own men, enjoying the embraces of  
maidens or lads--whomever each preferred. They did not appear to notice him though he looked no different. He had chosen not to remove the heavy leather jerkin he wore in the fields or the black armor. Though he sweated in his usual attire, he had faced harsher conditions than the heady, thick perfume and many clutching hands. He wandered idly through the merriment, refusing many hungered pleas and accepting the disappointed, intoxicated curses at his back. He thought of the Prince, glad that his official duties kept him from this free and careless lust. What would the boy do or say if a drunk youth's lips playfully found his? If crude and grabbing hands tore at his person?

It should have been even faintly alarming but instead, the glow within pulsed.

Hard.

He was nearly lost in thought when Gieve met him in the streets, already laden with several fragrant white garlands around his neck. He smiled and laughed when he saw his friend. "No flowers Daryoon? All you need do is kiss one of these lovely creatures and they offer them to you."

"Is that all they are offering?"

Gieve smirked and dragged the back of his arm across his mouth after a deep swig from his leather bag flask which was no doubt filled with something substantially stronger than water. "It is a season for love." He managed to cuff the hard shoulder of Daryoon's armor as playfully as the unyielding suit would allow. "Come, warrior. Your feet are too much in love with the  
ground!"

Daryoon wanted to smile but the hot surge in him beat faster than he cared for, the emotion he kept safely hidden away boiled under the surface and cut through the happy crowds and the mirth all around him.

"Thank you. No."

"Not even here eh Daryoon?" Gieve clapped him on the back. "No one can ever say you haven't the penchant for doom."

Gieve wasn't hard to lose. The dancers and musicians swept him up and carried him literally away and left Daryoon to plod though the crowds alone.

Spotting a tavern on the edge of but not isolated from the festival he headed for it. The soft yellow lights in the windows looked inviting with the coming night and the colorful parade of townspeople all seemed to be headed to the square for the Virgins dance. It was reputedly worth a look, with all the young men and women who had not yet taken up with another to dance bare-breasted in playful circles.

He had not the spirit for any of it now. He needed peace.

 

The place was thankfully close to empty and the tall warrior seated himself in a darker corner opposite the large hearth lit for the chill of the evening. The serving girl gave his dark armor and similar demeanor a questioning look before her smile returned and she asked his pleasure. The question wounded him further and he felt ashamed of his melancholy thoughts, trying to toss them aside with a shake of his head.

"Ale please."

When she brought the dark blue glass mug and the large pitcher of the cold frothy mead he stopped her when she made to take it away. "Leave it." He said.

It tasted strange with the large wedge of yellow lemon and the creamy foam. But it was good.

He drank the cool sweet brew and it brought him some comfort. Leisure was folly in his lot and not so easily found as Gieve claimed it to be. As long as the land raged in battle, he could not take ease in much more than what bubbled and hissed invitingly in his glass.

 

It wasn't long he had watched the boy. He was alluring in a way only the very intoxicated could be. Perhaps it was in the curve of his smile or the shade of his pale hair? Or maybe the manner of his walk or the timber of his laughter when a man whispered to him and pulled him close for a kiss. His sole contribution seemed to consist of filling the wine glasses and looking  
beautiful, tasks he performed to perfection.

The youths presence was sudden and quite alarming when he eased himself onto Daryoon's lap like a contented cat, making the tavern's patrons roar in laughter as Daryoon felt his face color from the boy's crude whispered words. Barely a man, with just clear blue eyes and a grace to the toss of his head. Where did such a youth learn words like these? Words that made Daryoon's cheeks burn, words not even a trained soldier would use. Fair skin and the scent of a perfume flooded Daryoon's senses, making his head lurch and the firelight seem blinding.

The weight of him against his sword buckle made his teeth clench.

The boy slipped away and he was left disoriented and flushed. A large man clapped him hard on the back nearly sending him to the floor."I think he must like you!"

The tavern's crowd roared in merriment.

Daryoon scowled. He had drunk too much, and he was a fool. He should return to the palace grounds immediately. He went to reach for his sword and froze in shock.

His sword, his UNCLES sword--was missing.

The boy.

A quick glance around showed him what he already knew. The fiend was gone. Daryoon slipped the coins into the outstretched palm of the confused serving girl as he strode out, his abrupt exit lending to the bawdy fellow's mirth.

 

 

It wasn't difficult for a man like Daryoon to locate a thief. Even steeped in strong ale and the chaos of the festival, his senses were alight with determined fury. He followed the nearest dark alley and after skirting the wall for only a moment, he saw his scabbard discarded on the ground. He retrieved it, knowing its plain military look was uninteresting to this young pretty fiend.

After a few twists and turns Daryoon halted and narrowed his eyes.

The thief was there and he had company.

Daryoon watched the two boys for he knew not how long, his mind swimming with the night air and the unaccustomed drink. It flooded through him with a gentle fire, almost as pleasant as it was invigorating.

The thief let the other kiss him fiercely at his neck, his hands traveling up into the back of his tunic and down into the back of his breeches. He giggled loudly when he playfully pulled the trousers down almost to his knees. The other pulled away and yanked them back up muttering at the antics but not angrily.

Daryoon had seen enough. He drew his dagger.

"Hold!"

They both stopped and turned to face the tall warrior, annoyance on the face of the thief, and uncertainty on that of his friend.

"You there, clear out." Daryoon told the other boy who was fumbling at his trouser strings.

The pretty youth glared at him while his friend backed away, unsure as to whether he should take to the crowded streets just down the alleyway, or stay and be brave. Daryoon's head nodded in the direction of the pale-haired thief.

"This one has taken my sword from my person."

A crude knife glinted in the thief's hand from nowhere, blue eyes daring. "And what?"

The flighty companion was shoved roughly aside.

Daryoon tightened a strong arm around the slender waist from behind and then gave the thief the breath-halting thrill of his dagger's point beneath his ear. He gave such a twist to the boy's arm that the pathetic knife fell spinning onto the streets. Over the youth's shoulder, Daryoon's glass-gray eyes challenged his companion who had moved jerkily as if to pick up the  
fallen weapon.

"Move, and I'll kill him."

To reinforce the notion, he permitted a drop of blood to bead on the fine neck and observed the flustered companion's silent jolt of fear. The poor boy looked doubtfully at his friend one more time and then at the dagger in Daryoon's grasp. It was all he needed to decide that a quick bit of fun was not worth making a show of bravery in which he would certainly end up  
regretting.

He took off down the alley way with a final apologetic glance to the boy and was gone.

Keeping the dagger in check with one hand, his other groped the thief's heaving form, heedless of where his own hand ungently traveled. "Be still." Daryoon hissed when the boy's squirming hindered his search. Finally, his gloved fingers touched the cool steel resting against the boy's narrow hips. Fresh anger built within him and he snapped the thin leather cord that held the precious blade. The boy scowled and flinched, expecting to be thrown back and discarded, ready to take flight. But Daryoon's arm remained motionless around his torso.

"Let me go." The young man snarled through a gasp.

Daryoon did, shoving him roughly forward. Eyes blue enough to be painted regarded him suspiciously beneath pale golden bangs. Daryoon's eyes lingered on the face of the beautiful viper. Not only did he look like one of the nymphs painted on a palace wall but his hair was the strangest color he'd ever seen, gold with a paler tinge to it. It looked more fitted to be  
jeweled than tangled messily about his shoulders.

The breath caught in his throat as the red hot flare in his belly spread through him, hotter than the blood in his veins.

"What're you staring at?" The boy rubbed at his neck where the dagger had bit slightly.

Something sharp and delicate about the boy's face, his slender bones and cunning mouth made him seem fit for court. Lord of Cut Throats, slender form garbed in a cheap silken parody of noble dress. The boy bit at his lip and straightened, brushing consciously at his rumpled clothing.

"I came to take back what is mine." Daryoon answered. He bent to pick up the boy's fallen knife, proffering it calmly. For a moment, blue eyes stared into gray and Daryoon witnessed the resurrection of the tavern waif as he took it and sheathed  
it, docile again. He tried hard to look defiant, no doubt having been faced with similar circumstances before.

"What do you want with me then? Town guard is too busy to look at you let alone-"

"Come with me." Daryoon slid his sword back into its scabbard. What did he want of this boy? Daryoon wondered in his haze of drink and lust. The heat within him burned him through like a blade, surprising him with its strength.

There was an uncertain silence.

Daryoon's black gloved hand closed suddenly around the boy's white wrist, and as he hissed and attempted to wrench free, the anger passed and a wary look appeared there instead.

"Who in Makra's name are you?" The boy demanded.

"I AM the town guard."

 

 

It had taken quite an elaborate effort to manage to dodge the Lady Pharanguese and convince the stubbornly intuitive Narsus he was really off to his bed chambers and then to finally slip out his window without calling out half of the Palace guard down upon on his head.

He was certain the only reason he had gotten on to his horse and escaped the palace grounds was because Daryoon was, for once, not by his side to escort him to the very edge of his bed and to lock the doors behind him. Arslan was glad his captain had decided to wander this night of all nights, and enjoy himself. When Narsus had quietly explained Daryoon's exit, it lightened his heart to know that perhaps for one evening Daryoon's mind could be at ease. Arslan smiled to himself, leaving his mount and feeling an unusual charge of excitement as he was suddenly and completely surrounded by strangers. Daryoon would surely not approve of this.

He had never seen so many in one place. He was pushed and pulled and hugged and even kissed, while he tried to see everything that went on around him. It at first frightened him, unaccustomed to being handled so readily or familiarly. But after a few minutes he started to enjoy being just a person in a crowd enjoying no favor or privilege, and treated like anyone else.  
After a few sips of the sweet region wine, his thoughts became lighter and his feet seemed to not obey. They took him everywhere his now feeble mind told him he should avoid. Arslan pulled the hood of his cloak down further around his face as he weaved his way through the throng of people. The moonstone droplet in his hair tinkled like glass against the golden circlet  
and he touched it gingerly, to be sure it was still there. He was startled when a drunk young girl his own age dressed in a mint green chemise appeared from one of the many inns, flower garlands hanging lazily about her near bare shoulders. She squealed at the sight of him, her slender, damp arm clasping around his neck.

"What a lovely ornament!" She exclaimed, her eyes gleaming greedily. "I saw the royal family once and not even the Counts of Lusitania had jewels this fine!"

Arslan felt his heart pound furiously. The girl's heady proximity was nearly unbearable in the heat their bodies created.

"I-I" To his horror, the empty courtesy could not find its way off his tongue. Before this became a large problem, she kissed him full on the mouth, her rouged lips sweet from whatever she'd been drinking and soft as satin. She was still giggling when he pushed her politely aside and, blushing madly, hurried on his way. Arslan felt the cool moonstone in relief, his fingers drifting aside to brush the emerald at his temple and feel the two pearls adjoining it. His mother's gifts were treasured and cost  
more than some small kingdoms. He had never once removed them or paid them much mind for that matter. Except the times when her absence was more than he could bear. It did not stop other people from noticing their beauty. Perhaps he should have known better than to expect a simple sacking hood to conceal his birthright.

He bit his tongue as he was jostled again, almost knocking a man over who was singing loudly with the music.

"Hey there! WATCH it!"

Arslan nodded and raised his hand in apology not willing to be trounced by the large fellow. A grin came to him thinking of Daryoon out in this mess, and the thought of Daryoon's expression at getting ale poured onto his boots, made him laugh  
right out loud. Daryoon was so set in his place. It was difficult to picture him laughing. Although the thought brought a flush to the young Prince's face and a distracted smile to his lips.

He last lost track of all time, the parties not waning with the dwindling night and with a yawn he handed a few coins to the sleepy child that had watched his mount while he had wandered. The palace wasn't far and in fact at the center of this bustling place. His mare, anxious to feed, bore him faster than if he had guided her himself.

As he expected the stables were empty and he let himself in, happy to mind his own horse for a change, a peaceful activity he enjoyed but was frequently ever permitted to do. He was about to push open the worn wooden stall open when he heard a soft sound.

He covered his shocked smile with his hand.

Some of the stable boys were taking advantage of the hour and the privacy of the deserted stables. Love was everywhere it seemed, seeping off the streets and into every secret place the city held.

Arslan quietly lay down his bridle and left his horse to feed. The mare would have to enjoy the evening out of her stall tonight. The groomsmen would find her in the morning.

 

 

The air was thick with the smell of oiled leather, and the unmistakable scent of the horses. His cloak and scabbard were tossed into the piled hay without a thought.

Daryoon shoved the boy down hard with two hands, heedless of the wooden planks under on the youth's knees. He stared hard, his jaw set, down into those eyes, those large uncertain pale blue eyes, blinking and staring back with gauged questioning that bordered on fear. The youth was out of breath, his blouse pulled to disarray from Daryoon's rush, his lips parted, the lower  
moist from being drawn between his teeth and wetting it while he waited and fought his confusion.

A muscle in Daryoon's jaw twitched.

It would take more than drink to quench the flame this time.

The leather belt came undone in his gloved hands, the heavy weight of the buckle lay against his thigh. Daryoon forcefully took the boy's pale hand and made him grasp the heated length of flesh and pull it free to hang inches from his upturned face.  
With one step forward the warrior had the young man against the stable wall, the head of his swelled sex pressed against the parted lips, the hot rapid breath of the thief urgent on his skin. The heat between Daryoon's legs intensified to the point of pain as his body flexed and tightened in want.

Moaning a soft gasp, Daryoon lost all what was left of his reasoning and pushed his hips forward and pressed the youth under him into the wall while the boy gasped to breathe under his onslaught. The warrior's grasp moved up into the boy's hair, taking a fist of the pale cornsilk in his hand and rolling it into his grip, holding the action captive, forcing the boy's mouth wider still with his entire swelled length.

That mouth.

It was the very same mouth that smiled to him and over him.

The lips were the same soft hue.

So much the same.

 

 

Arslan paused at the door.

What was that in the dim lantern light, laying dark and gleaming in the hay?

A sword?

The Prince's brow furrowed.

The fine, unadorned scabbard was familiar, the exposed hilt as recognizable as the man who carried it.

Bewildered, Arslan stepped towards the weapon.

 

 

He dropped the boy unceremoniously on top of a covered barrel, tearing the flimsy cloth from the boy's body as indifferently as a conflagration devours a forest. Daryoon pressed the boy's body back into the wall, his thighs on either side of the warrior's hips. He devoured his mouth, hot and sweet with the wine, his skin feverish under his hands. The lips were yielding to him, tentative and uncertain with his brute force.

The boy under him writhed beneath his crushing grip. The delicate skin of his jaw and shoulder, pale as the inside of a lily, Daryoon made in pink under his mouth and tongue, groaning into the soft fall of sun white hair, and the small wild flowers woven into it. Another tear of fabric and Daryoon had lifted his knee up over his shoulder, pulling him roughly almost onto his  
back, Daryoon's other hand under his other knee spreading him wide, hungry mouth on his mouth and neck, his chest and nipple.

The boy shifted in his violent grasp, rubbing his own hard sex up against Daryoon's own and moaning softly. The boy's hands flew to the walls and grasped the tangle of horses bridles and harness beside his head as Daryoon slammed his body into his in a hard and quick thrust. The tall warrior held him there and worked the paler lithe body under him without restraint, the boys cries going louder and louder as Daryoon lost what was left of his self control.

 

 

Arslan stood frozen in the dim interior of the barn.

Daryoon.

His eyes burned.

He had to leave this instant. The shame of being discovered made his face flush red in terror and humiliation. What Daryoon did was his very own business, he was a fool to think Daryoon did not indulge in pleasures of flesh when he disappeared with Narsus or even on his own. He had his own mind and his own life, his own desires and wants that did not revolve around  
the Kingdom.

The boys cries where growing even louder.

He was a man for Misra's sake.

Not a ...

Arslan choked on a sob, and muffled it with the palm of his hand.

He was a man, and not every bit of him belonged to Arslan.

He stumbled backwards, wanting to run and run until he dropped.

But in his haste, he knocked over a saddle that landed noisily to the floor.

Arslan felt his heart stop.

Daryoon's voice. "Who is there??!"

Like a coward, not a king...Arslan ran.

 

 

Even this, was he not allowed anything? Shame had come even as his need was sharpened to the height of madness in mind lurching, muscle wrenching warm panic. Unfinished. Unsated, he pulled away panting on the boy's stomach, still buried deep within his body, and the boy's own hot release left long ago on his skin, missed completely in Daryoon's frenzied uncompleted conquer.

A crash.

Daryoon saw the shadow of the spying lout flash through the door and was quick to follow. The sweat cooled on his heated skin as he cut through the night air, his anger flaring like a fire fueled by ale and his already pounding heart.

No one would live to witness this. Daryoon's mind boiled around the thought of the rumor of, even the idea of anyone he knew aware of his behavior. He would stop this petty whelp, the unfortunate sod who decided to watch what was not for his eyes.

And the warrior would make him very sorry for it.

He reached out and grabbed the hood of the coarse cloak and the fleeing person was yanked back and slammed into the opposite alley wall where he collapsed, the breath knocked from his lungs.

"You shall have worse cur!" Daryoon snarled, yanking the hood in his fist to pull the unlucky creature closer to his face.

The hood fell away.

Daryoon went cold at the first pale flash.

Arslan struggled away from him, gasping for air, unable to met his eyes. Daryoon's numb hands no longer belonged to him as they fell away. The Prince looked unlike himself, frightened and paler than a ghost. He trembled, his blue eyes huge.

Like the boy who still lay somewhere behind them in the straw.

Daryoon felt his throat burn with bile as with a heart wrenching sob, the Prince turned and fled, leaving him alone in the darkened stable.

to be continued....


	2. The Prince part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This is old. XD When you could only see Elam on laser disc.

"Forgive me, Narsus."

Narsus said nothing but held the gilded door open so that the Prince could enter, and shut it softly behind him. He had not expected the counselor to answer his own calls and perhaps, Arslan thought in relief, he had been fortunate enough to catch him at a dispensable hour. The unbridled decadence of Narsus's chamber put him at some ease. The walls were hung with rich tapestries representing the lure of a virtuous unicorn. Facing the window stood a curiously wrought cabinet with lacquer panels of powdered and gold tiles of mosaic, on which were placed some delicate goblets of Venetian glass, and a cup of dark-veined onyx. Pale poppies were embroidered on the silk coverlet of the bed, and tall reeds of fluted ivory bore up the velvet canopy, from which great tufts of ostrich plumes sprang, like white foam, to the pallid silver of the ceiling. Narsus himself was garbed for his status in a fine scarlet robe. His shining dark hair fell loose around his shoulders and it made him appear all the more luxurious, more stately than his years actually represented. Looking further about his quarters, Arslan realized that the counselor had not been abed but instead studying some manuscripts which lay on the study beside a crystal goblet of wine. Narsus cleared his throat softly.

"I admit I am surprised by your presence at such a late hour my Lord. May I interest you in some refreshment?" He lifted the canter of wine.

"No thank you, Narsus. I-I've come to talk with you."

Narsus set the wine down again and seated himself, folding his hands patiently. Arslan took a breath, hardly prepared as to how to begin when a soft rustling came from Narsus's disheveled bed.

"Oh! You aren't alone?" Arslan felt his face burn further, catching his reflection in one of the many bronze mirrors decorating the room. "I apologize Narsus, it is unforgivable to intrude." Dejected and embarrassed, the Prince stood and made for the door, his flustered hands working at the unfamiliar latch.

"Highness." Narsus's soft word halted him, and a comforting hand found his shoulder. "I am, as always, at your disposal."

Arslan looked back up to him over his shoulder gratefully but his gaze flickered with a frown to the far bed. "Won't we disturb eh, um-"

Narsus waved his hand dismissively.

"I never caught his name." He said seating himself back at the teak table laid with his maps and wine. "But I am sure it was lovely."

Arslan sat down again, trembling slightly in agitation. Narsus's calm brown eyes, which seemed to observe all things, were searching his face with careful interest, pale hands folded delicately under his chin. Arslan averted his gaze. It seemed almost impossible to be close to Narsus and not betray an inkling of what was in his heart. Narsus cleared his throat softly.

"Pardon my saying so Highness but you appear to have the flush of the drink on you. I do not believe I have ever seen you indulge in the vice, I pray the festival was to your liking." He chided.

Arslan shook his head. "I should not be surprised that you can read a man 's face as well you would a book." He said miserably.

Narsus titled his head with a small, careful smile.

"It is a skill invaluable in your Father's service and has taken me much to master. Indeed, its serves me well in a court full of vipers and minions. But that is not what you came to me for."

The young King tried to speak, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and his lips refused to move. He felt the awful heat return in his eyes, shame filling his chest. Bereft of good words, and suddenly weary, he slumped forward, letting only his sigh speak for him. Silence from Narsus, only the magnetic presence of his gaze, like the gentle warmth of the candles, still hinted that the counselor had not left the room. Arslan tried to slow his breathing, at length calming enough to clear his head and speak again.

"You are my most trusted advisor, Narsus." Arslan rubbed at his face as if to erase every trace of his humiliation. "In a heartbeat, I would place all my kingdom in your hands. But now, I am ashamed to sit here before you and find that I have no words."

Narsus held up his hand, his voice quietly sincere.

"Tell me, please, where have you come from?"

Arslan bowed his head.

"The stables." He whispered. The statement seemed to give the counselor pause for he only poured himself a glass of wine and sipped with a cloudy countenance. Arslan waited in agony, wondering if the man had any help for him at all. When Narsus finally spoke again, it was with prudence. He was careful in meeting the Prince's gaze.

"My years have taught me well enough to know when a man's troubles are founded in the heart."

Arslan felt his pulse accelerate, eyes widening. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain anything, but a gesture from Narsus silenced him.

"To say I have not watched my world closely would be something of an oversight. As well, it is my duty, your highness, as well as my privilege to guard you as diligently as I would my own boy."

Arslan stared at the elegant man in the soft amber glow of the wine filled crystal and his warm eyes. He knew not long ago Daryoon had taken solace in those eyes, and those soft, affluent hands that dipped the quill to ink. Their rooms had frequently been shared, and Arslan wondered what Narsus had whispered to Daryoon through the night.

"I say you must not let this matter go unresolved. I know your heart is heavy but I know there is one who shares the weight."

The Prince's voice lowered, barely to be heard, his gaze flickering over to the rumpled bed and the contented youth sleeping upon it.

"Then...how does one make a man love you? Not...not princely love. The love that is out there, in the streets tonight?"

Narsus paused, the first trace of surprise that the Prince had seen that night, entering his eyes.

"Arslan," Narsus begun, in a tone that did not beget either of their stations.

The Prince felt a great warmth for the man, nothing like the royal tyrant which was his father, and despite his age, the closest to a mentor Arslan had ever had in his life.

"You do not need my permission," Narsus placed a hand over his. "Just your own."

 

 

Arslan sought his way back to his bedchamber alone, feeling weak but not weary. He found a chair right away and sat in thought a great while. When the late hour sounded from the clock-tower, he pulled a silken cord, and after several minutes a page entered to disrobe him. With much ceremony, the lad poured rose water over his hands, scattering flower petals on his pillow. Then he selected a light robe of china blue silk from his wardrobe and bade the Prince stand before him. Arslan held his arms out as the boy pulled his shirt from him, his eyes distracted and his thoughts far.

He saw himself in fancy standing at the high altar of the cathedral in the fair raiment of a King, being given in holy ceremony to the knight and a smile played and lingered about his boyish lips, igniting with a bright luster his crystal blue eyes. Then, the dream vanished and, unbidden, the memory of the straw pile returned. Ugly, low surroundings where the livestock slept. He saw the pale hand flashing aimlessly, groping at nothing with heady helpless moans. He heard the heavy sighs turning to suppressed shouts, witnessed again the power that could make an entire body writhe inside and out. A delicate frown washed over his face, barely a testimony to the deep surge of pain that flashed through him.

A timid hand guided him down into a near by chair, and his boots were tugged off gently, one by one.

There, among the horses and the refuse, why did it happen with that stranger?

If only he could know, as that other had known, the warmth hidden by those iron sheaths, the dexterity of those mighty hands, the feel of it all.

The servant bade him rise once more.

It was true that what occupied him most were thoughts of his dear captain, brave Daryoon to whom he owed his very life. The beloved visage drifted sweetly into his contemplation as it had many times. Glass grey eyes, and unkept, raven hair. But these were both trivial things a silly maid might sigh about. His thoughts turned instead to the dark muscle severely bound in black leather and plated armor. The voice like approaching thunder. The mighty stroke of a sword in the name of Palsa.

Daryoon.

He who kept everything from everyone.

When a private word was cherished in the Prince's hands for days because he alone had received it.

Why had Daryoon given this mystery to some one else?

The guilty agony tugged at him again.

The servant had paused at Arslan's bare feet, on one knee. His hands worked casually at the tops of Arslan's silken trousers.

Arslan felt his face stain red, his obvious arousal inches from the boys face.

The boy still had not moved, his hands still at Arslan's hips.

The Prince felt the warmth flush through his body suddenly and painfully aware of the closed door, the beautiful upturned eyes of the page and his own sudden need.

Was this how it came to pass with Gieve, taken with lovers with each passing day, or even Narsus, discreet but enjoying the flesh of the beautiful that came to pass. And Daryoon, is this what the warrior felt?

"Shall you require anything more, your Highness?" The page asked.

He realized he could order this lad, only a year or so his junior, to stay. He could bid him enter his bed, dismiss him and never thereafter look upon his face.

Arslan swallowed, and averted his eyes. He couldn't do what they did, as tempting as it was. There was no meaning in it. No honor or dignity.

He cleared his throat and backed away, dismissing the boy gently. The page stood and, murmuring humble blessings, left. A few moments after the gilded doors had closed, he felt strange and full of thoughts he had never entertained.

He pulled the silk robe over his head.

The Prince flung himself back with a deep sigh of relief on the soft cushions of his embroidered bed, lying there, wild-eyed and open-mouthed at the memory of the boy's hands on his skin. Far away, in an orchard, a nightingale was singing. A faint perfume of jasmine came through the open window, bringing with it the sheen of moonlight. He brushed his pale hair back from his forehead, and taking up a lute, let his fingers stray across the cords. His eyelids drooped, and a strange languor came over him. Never before had he felt so keenly, or with such exquisite joy, the mystery that was his very own. Even the most innocent of affections brought the color to his cheeks. He was still only a lad, he reminded himself, with a small tinge of bitterness. He had barely passed his sixteenth year. His fingertips moved of their own volition creating a music that was careless and soft. The whisper of the silk felt delicious on his skin, cool against the warmth of his thighs and when he stretched it slid softly between his legs.

Indeed, it was he that he was thinking of to-night, as he lay back on his luxurious couch, watching the great pinewood log that was burning itself out on the open hearth.

His head fell limply to the side on his shoulder and the humming of the lute was silenced.

 

 

"M-my lord?"

The small page trembled pitifully in the silence of the garden, watching his master storm through the palace grounds. Daryoon had no trouble imagining how he appeared to the poor boy.

His captain in rare form, eyes ablaze like two burning embers, his countenance normally calm and distant as the sea, contorted with a rage not often seen outside a battle field.

An intoxicated reveler wandering the garden and laughing at the commotion had the unfortunate luck of stumbling directly in the man's path. With a terrible snarl he was sent violently sprawling, his outraged cries stirring the other servants in frantic concern to see what was the matter.

Daryoon heard none of it and cared less, intent on reaching the seclusion of his chamber.

"Out." He ordered the timid servant girl who waited at the door, ready with sweet water and fresh towels. She obeyed, spilling her perfumed tonic in her haste, looking fretfully over her shoulder as he slammed the door, sending the echo of the blast through the great corridor.

It wasn't enough.

His fist found the solid stone of the wall with a sharp crack, dust falling in his eyes from the blow. Again and again he sent the walls shuddering as if to tear them down, past decorum, past feeling; fighting until his knuckles were bruised and swelling inside the iron gauntlets and at last he was staring with empty eyes at the great clefts in the heavy grey stones, panting and sweaty.

Disgust washed over him like a chill and he shuddered. Slowly, painfully, he removed the battered gauntlets, clenching his raw, damaged fists together. The ache felt good; repentant but it did not take away the shame. Trembling, he backed away from the shattered fragments of stone, stopping when he reached his bed. With a great sigh, he fell back and hid his face in his arm as though weeping.

But of course, he did not do this.

He had been so careless. So absurdly careless. He looked up again at the ruined wall, and in a voice so quiet and pitiful it would have broken a marble statue's heart to hear it, he whispered:

"By Misra, what have I done?"

 

 

Arslan's eyes were closed and the open window cast a lunar shadow over his face. Sleep took him quickly and he dreamt.

It was the night before his coronation.

He thought that he was standing in the great Hall seated on his gilded throne before his nobles. His father's counselors were buzzing in anticipation as he was accustomed to. But the focus of their excited chatter was neither territory nor their commerce. The Chamberlain and the high officers of State bowed in homage, and the pages placed humbly before him a robe of tissued gold, a crown resplendent with precious rubies and a scepter of the finest craftsmanship. The young prince looked at them, and they were beautiful. More beautiful than anything he had ever seen. The Chamberlain stepped forward and spoke throughout the great hall with dutiful reverence.

"This, O Prince , is thy kingly raiment and these thy royal tools given thee by thy birthright. Receive them tomorrow and whatever you wish thy good servants shall fly to obey."

And the Prince smiled unable to express the honor he felt.

The wars were long over and the future of the Kingdom seemed as bright as his very own. The years that stretched ahead seemed without end.

The court was full of talk of times to come and what Misra would bestow on them. And most importantly, when the new King would assure the throne with his royal blood.

"What queen shall thee wed?" Asked the Chamberlain. "East, West, North, South, the finest women in all your vast realm wait for thee."

The courtiers were amused, and some of them laughed, for the Chamberlain to be so out spoken with the young Crown Prince. The Chamberlain himself laughed along with them, his long silver beard shaking in his mirth.

"Queen?" The boy frowned.

"Indeed queen, like thy mother, her gracious majesty."

Arslan moved his head slowly, knowing who stood by his shoulder before he even turned.

Daryoon, stern and composed.

By his side forever but never equal?

He glanced down again with an aching heart at the gems placed before his feet. The golden gleam of the crown was harsh, the rubies and pearls no longer enchanting. The gold tissued robe appeared heavy and gaudy, the scepter a heavy wand of no use.

"Take these things away." He ordered. "Though it be the day before my coronation, I will not wear them."

His voice resounded throughout the Great Hall, heard by all gathered present. Silence killed the merriment that had once filled every heart.

"My Lord?" The weight of Daryoon's hand on his shoulder halted him.

"You Daryoon." He said softly. "I would have you."

And then the glittering walls shook with protestation of all kinds. Outrage rose from the nobles, accusations of madness and cries to save the poor mad king's soul.

"He is not of royal blood!" One of the lords shouted.

"The same rogue dismissed dishonorably from thy noble father's service!" An old general exclaimed.

"What sort of a man is he?" Demanded the Chamberlain. "What sort of man is he that he should claim thy virtuous thoughts?"

"Only that," the young king replied. "A man. As I am."

And the courtiers were amazed, and some of them laughed, for they thought that he was jesting. The Chamberlain sputtered in disbelief, his beard shaking in agitation.

"Surely not your Highness! He is only a soldier--"

'Yes but a brave one whose labors have saved our precious kingdom from domination. Are not we all brothers, equal in Misra's eyes?"

"But--But once more I entreat thee, sire!"

But the prince's heart stood firm, and he said to his lords:

"Take these things away then, for I will not wear them."

And when the courtiers heard this they looked at each other and whispered, saying, "Surely he is mad, for what are the dreams of youth? They are not real things that one should heed!"

And the Chamberlain spoke to the young King, and said, "My lord, I pray thee set aside these thoughts and put on this fair robe, and set this crown upon thy head."

But Arslan spoke sternly to them again, and said.

"Take these things away. Though it be the day of my coronation, I will not wear them if they shall forbid me my strongest desire."

Thus Arslan took his leave of them, the echoes of their shouting fresh in his ears. But as he turned, he heard one of the lower merchants declare to another.

"Lord Daryoon's head will end up rotting on a spike, not on the fair bosom of a king!"

 

 

And when Arslan heard this he gave a great cry, and woke. Through the window he saw the long grey fingers of the dawn clutching at the fading stars.

"Daryoon." He whispered. A warm dampness had collected on his brow and he wiped it away. He shivered in the cool darkness of his room, the angered voices still ringing in his ears. He wanted to see Daryoon, to speak with him. With urgency, he threw off the bedcover and dressed. Then he slipped quietly into the corridor.

 

 

Daryoon rose slowly from the bath, the water almost cold. He did not shiver as the night air hit his skin and he stepped naked onto the even colder tile and for went the comfort of the fleecy cloth felt for his use. He stood for a moment in the dark before carefully replacing his dark riding trousers and black boots, his clothing and light armor going on piece by piece. There was comfort in the numbing routine and he felt his composure return as each section of the armor returned, covering his body as he shielded his mind.

He would leave as soon as he could collect his few things. The armies that stood by on the outskirts of the city would need him in a few days. He would ride ahead with them to the mountains. It was always best with him, that way.

He would not wake anyone or tell a soul. He would get his mount himself.

Daryoon grit his teeth at the thought of returning to the stables, his hands stopping in the fastening and adjusting to clench into fists. They throbbed with pain.

Grabbing his cloak from his still made bed, he swung around, ready to get out and away from this place as swiftly as he could.

"Daryoon?"

There was the miracle of him in his finest dress, a tunic of flowing white over the shirt's delicate grey. Soft pale doeskin breeches hugged the slender figure, a simple circlet of silver adorning his brow.

Once more, the Prince seemed to glow.

Daryoon could not make a sound, frozen to the spot as if he had been frozen into ice, his heart thudding so hard in his chest he thought it might burst.

He waited for the condemnation from this angel, the disgust, the dismissal, and the judgement to fall from his lips. Would he send him away? Exile him from his army? Or worse, express the disappointment Daryoon already felt so profoundly.

The silence bore on him like the midday sun. Daryoon tore his eyes from the floor and to the boy standing motionless in the doorway, a curious look in his pale blue eyes.

He could no longer bear it. He pushed himself purposely forward, prepared to place the young man aside if need be. But as he reached the door and Arslan, a cool hand fell on the exposed skin of his wrist above his black glove.

Before he could stop it, Arslan took Daryoon's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the sensitive flesh on the inside of his wrist.

Daryoon recoiled as if he had been burnt, feeling the bitterness hit him like a physical blow.

"What are you-"

"That boy."

It wasn't the small whisper Daryoon was expecting, or the biting tone of disgust he half hoped for.

What should he say? Should he beg forgiveness? Should he not? Should he offer explanation for what was so absurdly obvious?

With a deep growl of frustration Daryoon ripped his hand out of Arslan's grip and shoved the Crown Prince aside ready to rip the door from its iron hinges.

"Do you bear any love for him?" Arislan's voice wavered slightly though he fought to keep it steady.

Daryoon stopped breathing, hot tears of frustration and anger seared his eyes. His chest ached. Why taunt his shame? How much more of this could he bear before he simply crumbled? Already he felt his strength leaving him. His hand went to the latch again, weakly and without the will he had possessed only moments before.

The Prince's pale eyes flashed and in a voice so venomous it startled him, he shouted.

"I WILL be heard!"

Anger. Pure anger.

"Why him Daryoon!" Arslan demanded. "Why are you afraid of me!"

Daryoon's eyes widened.

Strong hands were on the chest plate of his armor, and Daryoon felt the coordination jolted from his limbs, reeling backward from the violence of the Prince's thrust. Daryoon felt his own anger surge in response hot and roiling in his chest but he checked himself. This was his Lord and master. Could anyone else render him this powerless? There he stood, eyes gleaming, face flushed. It was a sight both beautiful and terrible to see.

Slowly, Daryoon regained his footing and stood. Merely stood. This he could do. He could not speak. He could not even think. This he would do and wait until the Prince was himself again.

Arslan turned, shutting the door firmly.

Daryoon felt his heart careen beneath his armor. Arislan held him in his gaze now, though it was no longer bitter. Still, he dared not breathe.

The kiss Arslan left on his wrist burned like hell.

The Prince paused for a moment and Daryoon felt his brow draw in confusion.

And then, to Daryoon's complete and utter shock, the Prince slowly lowered himself, never breaking eye contact, to his knees, in perfect mimicry of the young thief.

Suddenly, he knew.

Daryoon moaned. "Nooo! NO!!" He grabbed the boy by the shoulders, horrified that the gesture had ignited the spark in his belly so fiercely he could barely think. This could not be. With restrained violence, Daryoon tried to shake the life back into him, remove the searing hands from his skin. But the Prince would not be moved.

Arslan lay his head against Daryoon's thigh, his hands sliding to the backs of the warriors knees in a submissive embrace.

Daryoon stared down at him in a light sweat, the Crown Prince and future king on his knees on the floor, and found he had no strength left to push him away. It drained away as quickly as before. His muscles were rigid, tensed, fearing one slight movement would shatter the moment, a moment he had witnessed only in the most fragile of dreams.

Lithe, pale hands moved gently to the front of his drawstring riding trousers, pulling the leather cord curiously, his pale blue eyes going to Daryoon and then back, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

Daryoon groaned with want when the cool hands on his skin make his powerful frame tremble like no blade's cut or hard kiss had ever done before.

The laces became loose and Daryoon's hard sex hung heavily out of the leather, throbbing with his rapidly beating heart.

Arislan's eyes widened at the size of it.

Daryoon shook, his muscles drawn so tightly they ached, he was helpless but to stand there and watch Arslan kneel before him like his equal. If he could speak but a word, surely he could stop this. His throat worked, his breath hardly daring to leave his lips.

"My Lord, this cannot happe-"

The boy's soft pleading silenced him.

"Daryoon, if you can never love me as your Prince, love me now." Arslan's lower lip trembled. "As a man."

The warrior looked down on him, Arslan's blue eyes fiercely determined that he be understood. When the sun hung bright in the sky, they must become reborn, but at this moment now, they were whomever they chose.

With a trembling hand Daryoon reached down and touched the jewels that hung like colored raindrops in the blonde hair. He pulled them free into his hand, and gently took the silver band from his forehead, the final mark of his station and tossed it aside onto the floor.

"Arslan." Daryoon asked softly. It was the first time, he faintly realized, that he had ever addressed him by his given name.

Arslan looked different without his crown. Not simple, never this boy, but changed.

How was he to go back to his life knowing what was impossible had been his, even for just a few minutes.

Daryoon put his hand gently under Arslan's chin, his thumb caressed the line of his jaw softly, his own head fallen to the side.

He whispered to him in anguish."Why do you do this to me?"

Arslan smiled softly up to him and very slowly, tentatively, let his cheek rub the side of Daryoon's sex, a wordless supplication, a gentle exchange of control.

The warrior gasped when his tongue touched the underside of the aching tip and then moved cautiously over it, taking what he could into his mouth.

Daryoon trembled on the verge, his own mouth open in steady shaking breaths. Arslan's hands tightened on Daryoon's hips and went haltingly behind him rubbing the backs of this thighs and then traveling higher. Groaning under the soft pressure of the inexperienced mouth as it slid further over his sex, he stumbled back and away unwilling to end it so soon.

Arslan was panting, his lips wet, wondering up at him, looking back between Daryoon's legs with a yearning to continue, unaware of how close the warrior had been to losing himself.

The temperature was suddenly unbearable.

Daryoon pulled one glove off with his teeth and then the other. The light armored chestplate unbuckled and fell to the floor with a clatter. He caught the prince's gaze on him like the moon upon the earth as he stripped off the plain black shirt underneath it all.

The garment was flung carelessly aside.

Relief. He flexed the muscles in his arms, constricted by the armor. The color had deepened in the boy's cheeks, his eyes bright and fixed upon his naked torso. Slowly, he offered a rough hand. Firmly, hungrily the prince took it.

He pulled Arslan up and lifted the boy under the back of his thighs while Arslan slid his arms around his broad, capable shoulders, his legs winding around Daryoon's waist.

It was a swift and desperate motion, Arslan moaned a gasp into his mouth, his hand running into the nape of Daryoon's black hair and flexing into a fist.

Somehow in this delirium, Daryoon found his bed.

 

 

Arslan lay back breathless from the attack, his trousers entangled at his ankles over his boots, his shirt pushed up around his neck. His mind was lost to need.

Daryoon's skin was dark and smooth, hard and powerful and tense over him. The warrior explored the his flesh with mouth and hands, catching a pale pink nipple between his teeth and letting his fingertips graze the soft sensitive inside of Arslan's thighs. Daryoon moved him on to his stomach and drew Arslan's hips up with his knees placed far apart enough that he groaned at the ache of his gripped thighs. The cool night air touched and caressed his skin, contrasting to the soft heat of Daryoon's body pressed up behind him. He pulled Arslan's trouser's off.

A callused hand ran down his hip and then his back, along his spine, and firmly pushing Arslan down onto his elbows, his shirt falling up over around his head. The the hand went into his hair, gently pushing his face down into the pillows.

It was the most profound feeling of submission Arslan had ever felt in his life. He shivered, overwhelmed as Daryoon's hand continued down under him onto his chest and then to his stomach and then up between his legs.

His eyes flew open and he gasped.

No one had ever touched him before.

He moaned into his pillow as his already hard sex turned painful in the firm hand, working him in a loose fist, making him writhe and push back into Daryoon=s grip.

Another hand was on his body, rubbing him softly up behind the hard sweet ache of his sex. The soft flesh that hung into Daryoon=s palm was softly kneaded making Arslan pant hard into the moist damp fabric of his pillow and wet his lips, his fists bunching the cool sheets on either side of his head.

The exploration went higher making the Prince=s fly open with a start and try to turn around.

The hand pressed him firmly down at the base of his neck, not letting him get up.

Arslan shifted and moaned as his body was entered, not by much, but his body rebelled in a panic, unsure he wanted what was happening to him.

The heel of Daryoon's palm rested against his skin, unable to go any further.

His hand resumed working Arslan's sex and at the same time he pulled his finger out and pushed in another.

Arslan cried out at the combination of sensations hit him, and the room seemed humid with the moist heat that rose on his skin.

The pressure of Daryoon slowly squeezing the hot length of him, and the gentle intrusion that stroked and moved, each small jarring push made his sex throb and grow even more painfully rigid.

Daryoon removed his hand and Arslan felt something much larger and hot pressed to him.

Arslan whimpered at the feel of it, his eyes squeezing shut as it slid in only a small way at first and then the sudden shocking feel of it filling him, his thighs shuddering against Daryoon's legs.

He suddenly felt the heat between his thighs boil over almost as soon as it had been set to flame, and he cried out into the bed as the hot release erupted from him, he couldn't help it or hold it back, shooting hot up against his stomach.

Daryoon filled him once and then twice, gripping Arslan's hips so tightly that the young Prince groaned, grinding his hips back into the warrior until Daryoon gasped and collasped on top on him.

Arslan moved to his back. Daryoon lay over him, resting his face in the boy's neck.

Daryoon's hot slowing breath on his skin was the only sound at first save for the distant music of the endless festival and the small tinkling bells that hung in the high windows.

 

They lay silent for a long time. Daryoon's hand in Arslan's hair, smoothing it back from his face from where they lay in each other's arms.

The sun had begun to slant through the windows, the sound of servants could be heard in the halls beyond, the sound of the morning birds distant.

Too soon, it was finished.

"You should not be found here."

The boy rose, opening his mouth as if to speak but Daryoon touched his lips with a finger, looking gravely to the door.

Arslan said nothing but got up slowly.

He dressed silently, pulling on the soft, flowing garments, that which reflected his status like a mirror to the sun. But before he placed the silver band to his forehead he pressed his lips to Daryoon's wrist and brushed the soft skin with his cheek.

The door closed quietly behind him.

 

 

Once again, the world had changed.

The Sherat mountains rose like great iron gates before the horizon, purple and misty in the distance. The familiar stamp of horses, the shouts of men and screaming of the children to see them off made the music of monotony. Daryoon kicked his mount to the front awaiting orders, his eyes cast on the shining figure in his saddle.

A pale hand slowly lifted and all was silent.

"Forward!"

The voice that commanded five thousand free wills.

The army moved across the desert like a lethargic beast, swirling clouds of dust in its wake, roaming intently in search of prey. At its head the North Star, constant and immovable, lead the way.

The ember deep in his belly flickering and bright, Daryoon followed.

 

The End

Now that the light is low

something i want to say

I guess you've known it for a while....

you're meant to give yourself

to someone else

not me

i know you're meant

to be yourself

with someone else

not me

somebody else

not me

-duran duran-


End file.
